Page 12 of Your Devoted Monster
The thinking part of Ezra—the part that doubted, that hated himself, that carried three years of failed attempts to feel something real—was dissolving. Gabriel could see it in the way his eyes went empty of everything but present sensation. No past. No future. Just Gabriel's cock in his throat and the seconds before he was allowed to breathe.
And Gabriel... Christ, Gabriel was coming apart in ways that had nothing to do with the wet heat of Ezra's mouth. Every time Ezra's throat opened for him, every time those bound arms stopped straining against the zip ties, every time he chose to take Gabriel deeper instead of pulling away—it was rewriting something fundamental in Gabriel's understanding of himself.
He'd thought he was above this. Above connection. Above anything that required another living person.
But watching Ezra come undone, watching him choose this, choose Gabriel—it was better than any kill. Better than any arrangement. Better than anything Gabriel had ever experienced.
Gabriel pulled out one more time, looked down at what he'd made. Ezra's face was barely recognizable—lips wet andobscene, cheeks painted with tears and come and spit, eyes unfocused and glassy. He wasn't thinking anymore. Wasn't worrying or wanting or remembering. He was just... present. Existing only in this moment, waiting for whatever Gabriel would give him next.
"Look at you," Gabriel whispered, not sure if Ezra could even process words anymore. His hand gentled in Ezra's hair, the gesture almost tender. "Finally here. Finally mine."
And for the first time in three years, Gabriel felt complete.
5
Ezra didn't knowhow long he'd been on his knees. Time had gone weird and slippery, lost all meaning. It was measured only in the rhythm of Gabriel's cock in his throat and the precious seconds between when he could actually breathe.
His brain felt like static. White noise. Every time a thought tried to form—this is insane, you're going to die, your jaw hurts, what the fuck are you doing—Gabriel would push back in and erase it, wipe the slate clean, leave him empty except for the need to open wider, take more, be good.
Be good?
When had that become the goal? Ezra couldn't remember. Couldn't remember anything except the warehouse, the concrete under his knees, the ache in his jaw. The salt taste of tears—his own, definitely his own—mixing with precome every time Gabriel pulled out to rub his cock across Ezra's face before pushing back in.
Three years of hunting danger and here he was, finally drowning in it.
"Look at you." Gabriel's voice came from somewhere above him, distant like God or thunder or the voice in Ezra's nightmares. His hand tightened in Ezra's hair, controlling the angle, the depth, everything. "Pretty thing. Taking it so well."
The words should spark defiance. Should make Ezra bite down, fight back, prove he wasn't just another victim. That's who he was, right? A survivor. A fighter. The one who got away.
But when Gabriel's hand tightened in his hair, when his cock pushed back between Ezra's swollen lips, all Ezra could think wasyesandpleaseanddon't stop.
What did that make him?
His knees hurt against the concrete, bruises forming on bruises. His arms had gone numb behind his back, zip ties cutting into his wrists—he'd tested them twice already, subtle little pulls to feel the plastic bite, fingers finding the tabs. Not yet. Not ready yet. His throat was raw, burning with every swallow. His cock was so hard it was painful, leaking steadily onto the concrete, completely ignored.
Perfect. It was all somehow perfect. This was what he'd been chasing through every disappointing hookup, every dangerous man who wasn't dangerous enough. This feeling of being completely overwhelmed, completely used, completelyhis.
Gabriel's, not any of theirs.
The rhythm changed. Gabriel's breathing got harsher, more ragged. Ezra could hear it even over the wet sounds, even over his own gasping attempts at air. Gabriel's hand tightened in his hair—not guiding anymore, just holding, keeping Ezra exactly where he wanted him.
Then Gabriel pulled out just enough for Ezra to drag in half a breath before pushing back in deeper,deeper, until Ezra's nose was pressed right up against him. Until there was nowhere else to go, nothing else to do, no choice but to take it. To be exactly what Gabriel wanted.
No air. No thoughts. Just Gabriel's cock down his throat and Gabriel's hand in his hair and Gabriel's control over everything.
Ezra's vision started to blur at the edges, black spots dancing. His lungs burned. His throat spasmed around Gabriel's cock, body trying to reject what his mind was desperate for. The contradiction made his head spin, made everything feel distant and close all at once.
Gabriel's thighs tensed against Ezra's jaw. His breathing stuttered, rhythm faltering. Ezra could feel it building—the tension in Gabriel's body, the way his grip in Ezra's hair went from controlling to desperate, the small unconscious thrust of his hips pushing impossibly deeper.
There.That was the moment. Gabriel losing control, finally, after all this careful domination. Ezra did that. Made a serial killer come undone.
The thought sent a rush of satisfaction through him even as his lungs screamed for air.
Gabriel pushed back in one more time and held Ezra there, still and pinned and completely owned. Then Gabriel's hand tightened in his hair like a vice, and he was coming with a low groan that Ezra felt vibrate through his entire body, through Gabriel's cock, through the point where they were connected.
Ezra's mouth filled with it—hot and bitter and too much, hitting the back of his throat, filling his mouth. More than he expected. More than he could handle.
He knew what was expected. Knew he was supposed to swallow, supposed to take everything Gabriel gave him like a good little victim.
